


Lovelier Than Fiction

by CarpeDiemForLife



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 100 percent fluff, 50 percent smut, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Love and Devotion, Sugary sweet romance, happy marriage, i just want my babies to be happy, seriously this might give you cavities, they deserve only nice things after all the crap they went through
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:16:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25238335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarpeDiemForLife/pseuds/CarpeDiemForLife
Summary: Sansa and Tyrion rule together as Queen and King of Westeros in a loving partnership. One evening, they ruminate on just how lucky they are to have ended up where they did. Fluff and smut ensue.
Relationships: Tyrion Lannister/Sansa Stark
Comments: 12
Kudos: 72





	Lovelier Than Fiction

**Author's Note:**

> Post-war canon divergence. Pure sugary romance.
> 
> *
> 
> The title is a spin off of "Truth is stranger than fiction"

“Did you ever imagine things turning out this way?”

Elbows on the balcony railing, Sansa leaned forward, staring over the roofs of King’s Landing into a golden sunset. Her husband had no need to ask what she meant: The two of them, married once more, in love, and ruling Westeros as King and Queen while Jon ruled as King in the North, the land united through their two houses and the people’s goodwill won through their wisdom and benevolence. It was an end that seemed too good to be true given all they had suffered, all _she_ had suffered, and the quiet wonderment in her voice made clear that the question was a rhetorical one.

Nevertheless, Tyrion did not pause before answering, “Oh, many times.”

She looked to him in surprise. He shrugged, mouth lifting in a bemused smile. “I never believed my imaginings would come _true_ , but the fantasy was one I indulged in often.”

“When?” she asked, genuine curiosity in her eyes, bright as wildfire.

“Ever since our first marriage. It didn’t begin right away—not from the very moment I laid my cloak upon your shoulders. But soon after. Already I respected and admired you, Lady Stark.”

Her former name, spoken often between them in private, brought forth in Sansa a happy nostalgia that little else could. So much of her past was pain and horror and blood that she rarely enjoyed looking backwards. But her name. Her father’s name, her _mother’s_ name. And the reminder that Tyrion had loved her, had seen her, even then, when she was little more than a stupid child with even stupider fantasies, brought joy to a piece of her history that was otherwise devoid of all warm, gentle feelings. 

They shared a tender smile. Tyrion continued. “It wasn’t long after we were wed that I came to see just how clever you are, and kind, and all the good we might accomplish together. I clung to that imagining, of a future I believed impossible, too beautiful ever to come to fruition, in all the intervening years. On my darkest days, it was the only light that kept me going.”

“But surely not while you served the Dragon Queen. What need would you have of it then?”

He nodded in mild acceptance. “That was true… for a time. Until the cracks began to show, and the salvation I thought I’d found proved itself an illusion. A fraud. And so, my mind turned again to dreams of that perfect world, never truly thinking that…”

Overcome by emotion, Tyrion swallowed, eyes fixed on the orange horizon. The sun’s fading light melted over King’s Landing like butter, the city awash in its sweet and delicate glow. A bare hand slipped into his. Tingles danced up his arm and he gripped her fingers tighter.

“That you could have it?” she completed. 

He turned back to look at her. He would rather be lit forever by the light in her eyes than that of the sun.

“That _we_ could,” he corrected. There was, after all, nothing in this dream meant for him alone. Without her by his side, it would have been… Not meaningless, for meaningless implied existence. There _was_ no perfect world that did not include Sansa in its vision. “That the world would ever let us, and that you would even want it if it did.”

“I wanted this far longer than I understood,” she said, looking out over the view.

His head tilted at her in question, curiosity and flirtation combined. “When did you first begin to desire it, my lady?” 

He was not a man above fishing for compliments. The truth of her love was still bewildering, utterly mind-boggling, and he shamelessly sought every reminder of it that he could. 

A wry smile curled about her lips and she shot him a sideways glance, more affectionate than exasperated. “I may be Queen,” she said, droll, “but you are the King and my husband. I hardly think you need to call me ‘my lady’ anymore.”

“It is not a title, given out of courtesy,” he said. “Merely a statement of fact. You are, and always shall be, my lady.”

Her cheeks grew as pink as her silk evening gown and Tyrion’s heart fluttered at the sight. His beautiful wife. That he could still have this effect on her meant more to him than all the dragons in creation. That her heart, so bruised and tormented, trusted him enough to open fully to him, showing a side of herself he’d feared frozen forever in the bitter cold of the North, was a gift for which he remained grateful every day. The world had beaten her down, but it had not taken her spirit. She was strong… _and_ she was soft. She was confident _and_ she was shy. She was a proud Wolf of Winterfell _and_ a flower that bloomed under the heat of the southern sun. She was all that she was, and he loved every facet of her being, an exquisite diamond whose many faces all shone in equal gleaming measure.

“You’re doing it again, aren’t you,” she teased.

Tyrion cocked his head. “What would that be?”

Even as it further reddened her visage, Sansa did not relent. Her own slight embarrassment couldn’t compare to the importance of ribbing her husband. “Thinking about how much you love me. Silly sod.”

A grin split his cheeks. She reached over, stroking his day-old stubble in a way that told him, as it had many times before, _I like that I can see your smile better now that your beard is gone_.

He’d kept the beard a few months into their new marriage and ascension to the Iron Throne, believing it to be part of the man Sansa had fallen in love with, and having himself grown attached to it as a barrier from the rest of the world, a distraction from his facial defects. Only to discover, much to his amazement, that just as he’d longed for her return from black clothes and layered armor to the springtime colors of her youth, so too did she yearn for the man she’d once known, back when love mingled with hate and desire was tempered by grief. When he shaved off his thick beard at her request, nervous that his bare face would reawaken disgust and disdain that he dreaded to see in her, she only smiled and said, “There is my husband.”

They made love that night, more passionate than every time that had come before it.

“Ah, you’ve already wrested from me too many compliments as it is, vixen,” he parried. The twinkle in her eyes as she took back her hand proved that he was right—her shift in conversation, while sincere, had also been subterfuge, a deliberate attempt to divert from his earlier inquiry. “If you want to know what I was thinking, you’ll have to answer my question first.”

“Then I suppose we’re both doomed to dissatisfaction, my lord Lannister,” she said, unable to hide the smile which betrayed the levity of their exchange.

“I suppose we are, Lady Stark.”

They turned their faces towards the sky, a deep velvet purple settling in above the sinking sun. As evening turned to night, a chill crept into the air, and Tyrion saw gooseflesh on his wife’s arms though she made no complaint against the cold. Why would she, when she’d faced far frostier climes? When she’d conquered the peerless North and come face to face with White Walkers, plunging her dragonglass blade into their icy hearts, the chill of certain death claiming her every limb, every artery, every vein.

Still, the cold was no longer a necessity for them to bear, and he never wished to see her shiver again. Not his Southern Queen.

“Here,” he said. By the time he removed his cloak, Sansa already knelt in front of him, no other words needed. He wrapped it about her shoulders like a shawl. She stood again, and when next she spoke, her voice surprised him.

“Since long before you ever asked that of me.”

Confusion creased his brow. “My love?”

“I wanted this since I was a girl.” Her eyes reflected back to him the love he spoke. “Far too long ago to remember the first time I felt it.”

A niggle of hurt wormed its way into his heart. “Now Sansa, you know how I love the games you play.” His words lighthearted so as not to sound like a reprimand. He could never reprimand his wife, the light of his existence, his partner in all things. “There is no need to play them with _me_. I never deluded myself that marriage to the demon monkey is what you wished for as a child.”

But she didn’t retreat, her eyes fixed on his. “I wished for a handsome, chivalrous prince who would hold me and protect me and take me away to his southern castle, where I would live in the warmth of the sun and all the colors of summer.” She lifted her arms, and he took in the magnificent scenery stretching out for miles and miles below them. “Have I not gotten everything I wanted, and more? I live in the Red Keep, the grandest castle in all of Westeros, far from the bleak landscape of my childhood, and my husband the King is not only kind and chivalrous but brilliant and witty and courageous. He takes care of me and has protected me always, even when I scorned his efforts, and he loves me. More deeply than I knew possible, far more than I envisioned in my childish dreams. And he does something else, something I never even thought to wish for. He treats me as his equal.”

Tyrion flushed, pleased, but guilt still gnawed at his conscience. For the knowledge that he was wanting. That his imperfection had wrecked the fairytale ending she deserved. That, through no fault of his or hers, only an aberration of nature, he could never be the culmination of her _everything_ the way that she was his.

“Handsome?” he pointed out, illuminating the flaw in her assertion of fulfilled wishes. He strove to maintain a humorous tone even as he felt a lion’s claws tear into his chest.

“Tyrion.” Graceful as in everything she did, Sansa knelt on the ground before him. He met her gaze directly, ashamed to feel tears crowd his eyes. “You are the handsomest man I’ve ever known.”

He scoffed and turned his head aside so she wouldn’t see his pain. Purple was fading to black, and an abundance of stars were scattered across the clear night sky.

“No, I mean it,” she said, placing a hand on his cheek and drawing him back towards her. He trembled beneath her touch. Her answering smile was brighter than a thousand fallen stars. “I wouldn’t lie to you, Tyrion; that’s not what we are. How can you not already know? This face is more beloved by me than any other. I live for the clever glint of your eyes. I die at every one of your smiles. This crease, and this one”—she traced lines down his face—“show me a good man, a strong man, who has weathered a lifetime of woes yet lost none of his gentle nature. I love them all. And this curl, here,” she said, lightening the mood with a playful tug of his hair.

If his laugh was a bit waterlogged, neither of them commented on it. “That curl specifically. Not any of the others?”

“Mmm,” she confirmed. Her lips pursed with mischief. “That one. It makes my tummy go all funny.”

“Sounds dreadful. We must order you a soothing concoction from the Grand Maester.”

“Don’t worry, I already have his prescription.”

“Oh?”

Sansa rose to her feet and took his hand, leading him into the royal bedchamber. The balcony doors were left open behind them. A cool breeze blew inside. Tyrion followed Sansa across the room, their gazes locked, never faltering.

First to go was his cloak, dropped from her shoulders, then her gown, followed by his leather vest, trousers, and underthings. Soon she was spread out beneath him on the bed, resplendent in her nakedness. Red hair spilled like flames over their pillow. The truth of her attraction to him was there in her large, dark pupils, and he felt bad for ever doubting her. He wasted no time in worshipping her with his lips and tongue and teeth, tasting and teasing every inch of her that he could as he palmed her breasts, before moving his mouth to her pert nipples. Heat grew between them, his own stoked higher by every gasp and moan to leave her lips. His wife. So beautiful. So perfect. Mind sharp as fire-hardened steel, heart tender as a rose with icy thorns.

Tyrion groaned, their sweat-slicked skin sliding together, bodies joining. Sansa clutched her knees to his side and whined when his fingers rubbed against her. He grunted. Panting, Sansa reached up and touched a finger to the battle scar that bisected his face.

“And how… could I forget this,” she said between his thrusts, her face red and splotchy, sweat darkening the hair at her temples. Gorgeous. “The scar that you… find so ugly.”

“Let me guess,” huffed Tyrion. “You’re going to tell me… that in your eyes… it’s beautiful. The mark of… a great warrior and… leader.”

“No, it just… gets me hot.”

Tyrion burst out laughing and Sansa grinned up at him like the brazen temptress she was.

“Why, you sly little…”

He began to pound harder. Sansa moaned and curled around him, quivering, speech driven from her grasp as he pinched and stroked. Fingernails scraped down his back. All his thoughts fled, nothing left but her words circling in his brain.

_Handsome_. _Brilliant_. _Beloved_.

“Sansa,” he gasped.

“Oh, oh.”

“Sansa. _Sansa_.”

His teeth gritted. Pleasure coiled in his gut.

“Oh! Tyrion!” She cried out and her body clenched, thighs trembling, entrance fluttering tighter around him. With one final thrust, Tyrion followed her over the edge. When the last of his spasms ceased, he pulled out and flopped onto the bed beside her. Sweat coated his body. Chuckling, he pressed a wrist against his forehead.

Sansa rolled over to lay her head on his shoulder. Her arm draped across his chest, hand resting above his still-racing heart.

“What are you laughing about?” she asked, her voice happy and sated.

His free hand covered hers and he grasped her fingers in his own.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Everything, I suppose.”

“Oh, well that narrows it down.”

He squeezed her hand—a pathetic retaliation, and they both knew it. But he didn’t much mind when it meant she snuggled up closer to him with a smirk. She died at each of his smiles, did she? Well, he would slay a hundred White Walkers for one of hers.

“It seems… incredible, doesn’t it?” He struggled to give voice to muddled thoughts. “To have found each other again after all these years and be here together, now. Sometimes I fear I’ll wake to find it was all just another dream.”

“Then take comfort, my lord,” she said, “because this can’t be a dream. I never had such a wonderful dream in all my life.”

“My dear, sweet Sansa…”

A chill snaked through her so he pulled up the blankets, covering their naked bodies. He ran fingers through her long, fiery hair.

“You know that I love you, don’t you? With every bone in my body, every drop of blood in my veins,” he said, gazing down at the top of her head. She tilted her chin up, eyes shining like starlight. “There is no one else I would want to rule Westeros by my side.”

“By _your_ side?” Propped up on an elbow, she raised her eyebrows at him. “I think you’ve gotten our roles switched around, _my dear_.”

He grinned. “Of course, my mistake entirely. Her Majesty is magnanimous indeed to allow one such as myself to serve at her side and share her bed.”

“Well…” Satisfied as the cat that got the cream, Sansa settled back down onto his shoulder. “It would be a shame to waste such a… natural talent.”

Tyrion inhaled sharply as her fingers crept over his bare flesh then wrapped around him. He groaned. “Her Majesty also has an insatiable appetite.”

Indeed, she did—now. It had been a slow process to get to this point. Even as newlyweds, as though to mirror their previous marriage, they hadn’t immediately consummated their union. Instead, they took it slowly, only kissing and cuddling at first. Not until Sansa felt ready did they move on to other things.

The bliss was well worth the wait. Though Tyrion would have waited forever if it meant staying by her side and keeping her light in his life. So too would he have refrained from ever touching her again had the experience proved unpleasant.

All the better for him that the first good sex of her life filled her with a thirst for much more. Secretly, he’d sometimes worried that her unflagging lust was due to his own failing, that he wasn’t enough for her.

He knew better now.

Half in jest, he said, “I fear her unworthy consort won’t be able to keep up.”

“I love you too, Tyrion.”

His eyes shot open, pulse quickening. Not that she’d never spoken those words before; but they were still a rarity, and they lit a fire in his heart.

Climbing on top of him, Sansa straddled his waist. She swooped down and stole a kiss, a deep kiss, his surprised moans muffled by her tongue. His hands flew up to frame her face. Hers dove into his hair, tugging at his curls and scraping along his scalp until, soon, he was hard again. He bit and sucked at her lips, chasing them every time she dared pull too far away.

Then she pulled out of his reach, and he barely had time to complain before he was sheathed inside of her and the whole world tunneled towards her single point of gravity, his vision going black at the edges. He jerked up, but a firm hand on his chest kept him in place.

“I love you,” she said, starting to move. His fingers grabbed at her hips. “It took leaving you to see it, but I loved you well before I knew. My husband. My Lannister.”

Tyrion hissed as she increased her pace, raking her fingernails down his chest. “Sansa… _fuck_ , you feel so good.” Barely coherent, he reached for her sensitive area, refusing to take this ride alone.

“You are the only one I want with me,” she went on, now with breathy moans of her own. “Beside me, inside me.”

“Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.”

“I love you, Tyrion.”

“I love you—gods, I love you so much. What a wreck you’ve made of me.” He strained upward and, seeming to understand what he wanted, Sansa bent down and surrendered to his biting kiss. An animalistic growl tore out of his throat when she drew back, then a shout as she bounced even harder, the bed creaking and groaning beneath them.

“Seven Hells,” he swore.

“You’re not the only one who’s a wreck.” She made a keening noise and threw back her head as she found her sweet spot. His hand came up to encircle her neck, relishing the dark of his tan against her pale complexion. Dark eyes flashed and she shuddered around him—not with completion, but excitement. Testing the waters, he squeezed a little harder. With a drawn-out whine, she slammed down on him, and he almost gasped from the intensity.

“Yes, _yes_ ,” she moaned.

“Sansa… fuck, I can’t…”

“ _Tyrion_ …”

“Gods. Yes. Just like that.”

“I love you.”

These words, sounding hushed and strangled, as though his hand was still around her windpipe, finished him. Stars erupted behind his eyelids. He cried out her name, clutching her through his pleasure.

When he could breathe again and slipped out, Sansa remained perched above him, unreleased tension coiled in her muscles. She gave a needy, desperate whine, rutting against his leg.

“More, please… I-I need…”

Her back hit the mattress and she let out a surprised exhalation. Before she could say anything, his mouth was on her, tongue lapping at his spill and circling her sensitive folds of skin. She writhed against the pillows, fingers clawing into the bedsheets. He kissed and sucked, lavishing her with coarse stimulation, until finally she came with a scream. He kept going as she rode out the waves. Soon she tugged him away, her limbs trembling. He climbed back up her body.

Their lips connected in a brutal kiss, their love-forged fervor stronger even than their mutual exhaustion. They devoured each other, and Tyrion knew that he could be happy if he never again tasted the delicious fruit of the vine, so long as she remained in his life. She was more intoxicating than any drink.

Eventually their kisses grew slow and sweet. Calmer, but no less passionate. They lay beside one another underneath the blankets.

With a sleepy grin, Tyrion said, “Lady Stark, the things that you do to my cock…”

She slapped his arm, her feigned delicacy belied by the playful spark of her smile. “My lord. Such words aren’t suitable for a lady’s ears.”

“No? And what if I were to say…”

His lips brushed past her cheek, and he whispered dirty, filthy promises into her ear. This time she went properly red, and he could feel the heat she was giving off.

“Tyrion,” she almost growled. “Continue to tease me and you may get no sleep tonight.”

“It’s no less than you deserve after that performance back there.”

“Bastard.”

“Hussy.”

Matched in sex as they were matched in wits, Tyrion and Sansa both smirked, each knowing the power they held over the other. Peace and contentment settled into his heart and he smiled, brushing back the hair from her face, running fingers through her long tresses.

“In the end, I suppose you were right.”

“I usually am,” she said. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

He didn’t rise to the bait, too overcome with gentler feelings.

“I never did imagine it, not truly,” he said. “This is far better than any dream my mind could concoct. _You_ are a dream.”

“You’re doing it again.”

Laughing, he caressed her cheek with his thumb. “And I will _continue_ to think about how immensely I love you for many more years to come. That is, if my lady will permit it.”

“She will. On one condition.”

“Ask and it’s yours.”

Sansa nestled close to him, their bodies entwining. Chin on his shoulder, she looked him in the eyes.

“Hold me,” she said, her voice soft. “And don’t let go.”

Adoration blazed inside of him like an exploding star, almost too much for his body to contain, and he wrapped her tighter in his embrace. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head as her eyelids flickered shut, the lure of sleep grown too powerful to ignore.

“As my lady commands.”

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I didn't watch the last few seasons, so while I've dropped in some details I picked up online, I never intended this to have complete canonical accuracy. Where the plot diverges from canon is up to you--I simply wanted to explore my favorite GoT ship with the ending that I felt they needed and deserved. Headcanons abound, to compensate for the mess that is the actual show. 
> 
> If anyone wants to share their own headcanons or talk more about mine, leave a comment! I'm always up for swapping ideas and tearing canon to pieces. All other comments are, of course, also welcome and encouraged!


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